Broken Arrow
by John Bigboote
Summary: Things get fishy for Ishtar


"_You're out of your mind." _

\- Christian Slater

"_Yeah! Ain't it cool?"_

\- John Travolta

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The serene blue sky shined through sandstone columns. Soft white clouds were drifting eastward like flower petals on the surface of a slowly trickling stream. The mountain air was cool and quiet. The temple would have been a place of total peace if it weren't for the ruckus Ishtar was making.

Three objects were arranged on the altar: The first was Ishtar's lower bikini garment sitting off by itself. The second was a large bronze bowl holding a swarm of tiny slithering creatures that shared the traits of both earthworms and locusts. The third was another bowl made of glass filled with grape wine.

Ishtar's feet convulsed at the same time her screams of passion filled the temple. She was situated on the edge of the altar with her legs parted and the two bowls placed near her hips. On the same side of the altar, a group of timid vestal virgins dressed in light silk tunics tended to the goddess's current needs. Their innocent temperaments and their gentle healing hands made them perfect for the task.

A vestal would take a small cluster of the worms in her fingers, dip them a few times into the wine bowl, and then delicately guide them into Ishtar's sacred being. Everything was neatly organized. Just as one vestal finished bestowing her prayers between the goddess's thighs, the next would step in line with more wine-covered beasts squirming in her fingers. The dozen or so demure maidens who made up the cult worked with the upmost care for comfort and intimacy. Or at least they tried, considering the nature of their task.

The process happened again and again, every time causing another scream. The wine helped in two ways: It made the worms more slippery so they had an easier time wiggling into small spaces, and it had a therapeutic effect on Ishtar's body. The sensation of the worms squirming and coiling inside her was nearly unbearable, so much so that it likely would have killed her had she been a mortal woman. It would have been a hundred times worse without the wine helping to dull her senses and relax the muscle deep in her body.

But the feelings that kept shooting through her were never ones of pain. They were only pure pleasure. The little creatures were like ambrosia for the womb.

Another goddess named Astarte stood behind the altar. Her arms were crossed and her eyes were ever watchful. She communicated almost entirely through her smug facial expressions, occasionally resting her knuckles under her chin and smiling when Ishtar was especially loud. Her manner of dress consisted of little more than extravagant swimwear that revealed much of her full figure. She and Ishtar shared the same skimpy fashion sense, as they both reigned over the same domain of the pantheon devoted to love and prosperity. Her hair draped down her shoulders like bright pink satin. On the top of her head, she wore a crown that gave her two tiny horns.

The hatred that brewed between the two goddesses was legendary. Astarte was a great old deity worshiped by the Sidonians. Ishtar was some pompous new age harlot worshiped by the Sumerians and Hittites. They always bickered over who was more deserving of a human following. They had agreed to settle their differences in the customary way: With a beauty contest. The loser would have to submit herself to anything the winner wished.

Ishtar lost. Now she was paying the price with her dignity, becoming a slave to the tiny creatures feasting on her divine fertility.

"I warned you not to test me," Astarte said over her Ishtar's shoulder with a scornful grin. She brushed Ishtar's tangled raven hair as if the rival goddess were simply a pet horse. "I've dealt with your incarnations all throughout this timeline. I've seen you fall to the worms ever time. You might be pretend to be a goddess now, but I know you'll break like all the others."

The vestals continued their mission as Astarte spoke. Little by little, they quietly emptied the bowl holding the worms and guided them into the place that would be their home for the rest of eternity. The vestals never questioned Astarte's commands. They never shuddered at the disgusting nature of their task. Their holy purpose was to make sure the goddess of love and war became the goddess of corruption.

"Haa… no more… no more… mercy…" Ishtar whispered in exhausted breaths. Her golden irises shimmered like tiny weary torches through her eyelashes as she struggled to keep them open. The gold jewelry around her ears and neck rattled softly from her gasping. Her elegant upper garments were dangerously close to popping right off of her bust as it violently rose and fell. Her feverish face was turning dark red.

Astarte glanced coldly toward the young women tending the goddess.

"Is her quiver full?"

One of the vestals delicately used her index finger to check Ishtar's condition. The goddess suddenly yelped.

"Not even halfway, your majesty," the vestal answered. Ishtar used the break to catch her breath and adjust her hips higher on the altar. She was close to sliding off the edge from all of her convulsions.

"Keep at her. We haven't made an example of this imposter until she's filled to the brim," Astarte sternly ordered. Another tiny cluster of creatures slid into Ishtar, and another scream of delight rose out of her.

Bound by duty and divine law, Ishtar had no choice but remain like she was and allow the festival of worms to proceed. Every time another cluster joined the ones that had already made her their home, she shrieked in a voice that would make any goddess feel profaned.

The carnal sensation flooding through her being became so intense that she squeezed her eyes shut and curled her naked waist like she was in agony. When her eyes fluttered open again, the irises were bright green. The color of insect blood.

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_Author's note: It's supposed to be Medb messing around with Rin again in case you couldn't tell.  
_

_Author's other note: Writing mythology fics is always interesting. It makes me feel like I'm following the traditions of my ancient precursors by saying "What kind of story am I going to tell that's an abstract representation of some screwed up part of the human condition this time?"_


End file.
